


Waiting For You to Come Home

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: Waiting For You to Come Home [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Ficlets, House sharing, M/M, Modern AU, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Roommates, Singing, domestic AU, showering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: When Geralt agreed, with some reluctance, to let Jaskier move in with him, he hadn’t anticipated the impromptu shower concerts.A series of Modern AU, house-sharing ficlets.In the most recent story, Jaskier convinces Geralt to go stargazing with him, and Geralt has an sudden realisation about what, exactly, Jaskier has come to mean to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Waiting For You to Come Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913770
Comments: 194
Kudos: 530





	1. Singing in the Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings in the shower - and Geralt... doesn't hate it. Rated M for sexy song lyrics.

When Geralt agrees, with some reluctance, to let Jaskier move in with him, he isn't anticipating the impromptu shower concerts.

He expects singing - it is Jaskier's _job_ , after all - but within thirty seconds of the tell-tale click and hum of the boiler turning on and the shower beginning to run, the house will resonate with whatever song Jaskier has stuck in his head that day.

It annoys him at first. It _still_ annoys him, if he’s up early or hungover or watching a movie or trying to get laid. But he’s gotten used to it, and (while he doesn't like to further stoke the flames of Jaskier’s ego), he’s a good singer.

Geralt learnt, fairly early on, that Jaskier takes requests. Not _really_ requests, but the man is like a musical sponge, and if you play a song enough times in his presence he’ll soon be hollering it in the shower. Geralt had only figured this out after a long weekend spent trying to fix his motorbike with his _Ladies of Rock_ playlist blasting out, and had found Jaskier belting _Barracuda_ in the shower on Monday morning. He doesn’t appear to have a preference for style or genre; although his rap is a little rusty.

He’s gotten used to the singing, that’s true. But more than that - he likes it. He’s started sitting on the top step just outside the bathroom door to listen to Jaskier sing, and in the mornings it’s almost become part of his routine. Afterwards, he’ll always bring him a coffee: partly because he knows Jaskier can barely function in the morning without one, and partly to make himself feel a little less guilty for intruding on him. He’s not sure if Jaskier is even aware that he’s been listening to him. He's has caught him lingering outside the door on more than one occasion, but always appears to assume that Geralt’s mad with him - that he needs the bathroom and has been waiting for him to leave.

Geralt doesn’t necessarily like that Jaskier thinks he’s some grumpy arsehole (he _is_ , but that’s beside the point), but it’s better than him thinking that Geralt is spying on him, better than him being embarrassed by the whole thing.

His repertoire is always growing, bouncing between styles and themes. Sometimes he’ll get stuck in a mood and they’ll have three days of upbeat pop or a week of despondent, angry emo from fifteen years ago.

Geralt tries not to read into the actual songs too much, but it’s hard not to, sometimes. After they'd had a particularly heated argument about inconsequential bullshit, he’d caught him singing Lily Allen’s _Fuck You_ during an evening shower. After being dumped by a guy he used to sing with, it was Radiohead’s _Creep_. 

In the summer, one long afternoon, he’d helped Geralt train for an upcoming job - spotting him, counting press-ups and chin-ups, that sort of thing. That evening he’d been in the shower for what felt like hours, singing - at the top of his lungs, no less - Hot Chocolate’s _You Sexy Thing._

Geralt really, _really_ tried not to read too much into that one. They had passed as Jaskier had left the shower, his hair on end and bathed in steam. 

“All yours,” he’d said. His face was flushed, eyes sparkling. 

_It’s just the heat of the shower,_ Geralt had told himself, _It’s just…warm in there._

He’d spent a good fifty minutes in the shower himself, that night.

So - he likes the songs. He likes figuring out how Jaskier’s feeling without needing to actually ask. 

Yen’s been to visit, been to carry on whatever this thing between them is. Whatever it _was_ , it feels like now. Something’s changed between them - something had changed _months_ ago, he suspects, but they’ve both been too stubborn and set in their ways to call it off.

Jaskier is in the shower. It’s early - far earlier than he’s normally awake - but he’s been in the shower for fifteen minutes now, and Yen is desperate to get in there so she can have a shower herself and get home. 

She leans on the banister wearing one of Geralt’s shirts, glaring at the locked bathroom door. Then the singing starts.

“ _Cause I may be bad, but I’m perfectly good at it!_ ”

She cringes.

“Fuck,” says Geralt, trying his best not to laugh.

“Well this is just marv-” Yen begins, but is cut off.

“ _Sex in the air, I don’t care, I love the smell of it!_ ”

“Geralt!”

“What?”

“Do something!”

_“…But chains and whips excite me!”_

Geralt can’t help it - he bursts out laughing, much to Yen’s annoyance. In the bathroom, Jaskier has moved onto a chorus full of _na na nas_ and _I like its._

“What even is this?” Yen says, her nose wrinkled.

“Rihanna.” Says Geralt, simply. 

Yen gives him a look somewhere between shock and repulsion and is about to say something - no doubt chastising him for his sub-par music taste - when she’s cut off yet again by another verse.

_“Just one night full of sin! Feel the pain on your skin!”_

“Good god…” she mutters, turning to her coffee and taking a deep drink. “You’re aware this is all for our benefit, right? The little shit…”

Geralt feels a twinge of guilt. She’s probably right: they’re never very good at being subtle.

_“Shut me up, gag and bound me…”_

“If only…” She drains the coffee and thrusts the cup back at Geralt. “Well?”

“Well _what_ , Yen? What do you want me to do about it?”

“He’s your roommate! And I’m going to be late if I don’t shower soon!”

The chorus has started again, and the line about chains and whips floats past them once more.

“Honestly, this is just insulting. It’s not like we-”

_“Oh, I love the feeling you bring to me, oh you turn me on-”_

“He might not necessarily be singing about-”

_“It’s exactly what I’ve been yearning for, give it to me strong”_

Yennefer pushes past Geralt, back into his room. She quickly tugs on the dress she was wearing yesterday evening and grabs her handbag.

“Seriously, Geralt, this is why I-”

The bathroom door bursts open. Jaskier stands there, framed in the doorway. His hair is slicked back, his face red, his skin still wet and glistening.

He’s wearing what Geralt suspects is the smallest towel he could find wrapped around his waist, dangerously low on his hipbones, held up only through sheer luck. The sides of the towel barely meet, displaying the entire length of his leg.

“Yennefer!” He says, a picture of politeness, “I had no idea you were here! Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

He stalks past her as she gapes at him, dumbstruck, towards Geralt, who realises too late that he’s blocking the entrance to Jaskier’s room.

“If you would, darling?”

Geralt blinks and steps aside. As he walks past, Jaskier winks at him. Geralt nearly swallows his own tongue. He opens his door, making a show of keeping the towel up with his free hand, then disappears inside his room.

Geralt finds himself staring at the closed door. _Shit_. Yen.

He turns. 

Yen’s gone. From downstairs, the front door slams.

He sighs, running a hand through his long hair. He’s about to head into the shower himself, when Jaskier’s door opens just a crack.

“Hey.”

He turns, half-expecting an apology.

“Jas…” 

“Catch.”

The door opens just a little more, and then the towel - the infuriatingly tiny towel - is chucked at him. It lands on his head. He gets a quick glimpse of still-wet skin before the door slams shut once more.

 _Fuck_. He grabs the towel, damp beneath his fingers, and heads towards the bathroom.


	2. Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Ciri attempt to make breakfast. Rated T for swears (but the rest is pure fluff)

Jaskier and Ciri look down at the ruined pancake slowly burning in the pan.

“Huh.”

“I thought you said you were _good_ at cooking?” Says Ciri, accusatorily.

“I _am_ good at cooking.” Jaskier pokes at the inedible mush trying to fuse itself to the metal. “Usually.”

She snorts at him as he picks up the pan and begins to scrape the failed pancake into the bin.

“It’s fine,” he says, cheerily, “the first pancake is always a bit shit. That’s the whole point of pancakes.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, fondly. “This one’s _very_ shit, Jask.”

He grabs the tea towel from the side and swats it at her. “ _Language_ , Cirilla!” 

“You started it, _Julian_.”

“Yes, _well_ ,” he tosses the tea towel towards the sink, “don’t tell your dad.” Jaskier grabs the pancake batter. “Shall we try again?”

Ciri nods. “Try and make sure this one isn’t shit.” 

Jaskier gives her a warning look and bumps her with his hip. “You know if you swear in front of Geralt he’ll blame me, right?”

She grins at him. “I know.”

He shakes his head. “Gods save me from Rivias.”

Ciri scoops off another chunk of butter and drops it into the pan, moving it around to spread it evenly, before Jaskier pours in another serving of mix. They watch as the batter splutters.

“Okay, _so_ ,” Jaskier starts opening cupboards as the pancake cooks, “Toppings. Geralt is the most boring man on earth so he only likes his with a bit of sugar. He says I put too much on, so we’ll take him up the sugar as well in a little pot, right?”

“Right.”

“And I’ll have Nutella, because _obviously_ that’s the only _real_ choice for pancakes. What about you, Ciri?” He turns to look at her, the cupboard open behind him. “What do you like?”

Ciri nibbles on a loose hangnail. Suddenly, the smell of batter and the hiss of the melting butter feels too much. She’s thrust, all at once, back to not even a year ago, dancing around the kitchen with Grandma and Eist, laughing as Eist burnt pancake after pancake.

She sniffs.

“When I was… before… Grandma used to have peanut butter. Eist used to tease her for it.”

She can feel tears beginning to sting at her eyes. She tries to blink them back, furiously gnawing at the painful flap of skin niggling at her nail.

Jaskier’s expression softens. 

“Oh, Ciri,” he says, shoulders slumping. Before she’s had a chance to say anything else, he’s pulling her into a hug. He smells faintly of lavender.

She rubs uselessly at her eyes, trying to make sure he can’t see her cry. Jaskier holds her for a moment, then lets out a little sigh before releasing her, turning to the cupboard once more. She suspects he’s trying to give her a little privacy, and quickly rubs at her eyes with her sleeves. 

“Right,” he says, “we might actually have some peanut butter in here, somewhere…” he starts to pull out tins and jars, rummaging. “Ahah!” He peers at the label. “I _think_ this is still in date…”

He pulls out the bag of sugar and the jar of nutella too, lining them up on the counter top. “There,” he says, nodding. “All ready to go.”

He turns back to the hob, grabs a spatula and gently pushes it beneath the pancake. He gives the pan an experimental little wobble and the pancake shifts easily. 

“There we go,” he says, grinning, “that’s more like it. Now we just need to-”

With a dextrous little flick of his wrist, he tosses the frying pan. 

The pancake flops onto the floor with a sad little _slap_.

“Ah.” He looks up at Ciri. “Five second rule?”

Ciri pulls a disgusted face at him.

“Fine, _fine_.” He reaches down, and grabs the pancake. “Ah, _shit_ \- that’s hot…” and throws it into the bin along with their first failed attempt. “Third time’s the charm?” 

Ciri can’t help but smile along with him him. His enthusiasm is infectious. “Go on, then. We’re gonna need to make more mix if you mess up the next one, though.”

“Technically _gravity_ messed that one up.”

“Sure.”

They ready the pan for the next attempt, and soon there’s a little pool of batter cooking in the pan. 

“Maybe we should have just bought ready-made pancakes,” Ciri says, side-eyeing Jaskier. 

“And miss out on all this fun?” He says, poking at the batter with the spatula.

“At least those ones would have been edible,” she responds, cheekily.

Jaskier gasps in indignation. “You _wound_ me, Ciri! Such insults! I will not stand for it!”

He spins around, brandishing the spatula at Ciri.

_“En garde!”_

Ciri giggles and grabs the wooden mixing spoon from the sink, raising it like a rapier. Jaskier grins and does a complicated little twirl with the spatula before leaping forwards. Ciri laughs again and slashes at him with the spoon, and soon they’re spinning around the kitchen, hurling insults at each other as their utensils smash together like swords.

“Get back, ye _blaggard_!” Shouts Jaskier, tapping her on the top of the head with the end of his improvised weapon.

Ciri shrieks, ineffectually batting at him with the spoon, splattering his shirt with batter.

“A-hah!” Jaskier flicks the spatula and the spoon goes flying from Ciri’s hand. Reacting instinctively, she grabs the closest thing to hand - the bag of flour - reaches in, and before either of them realise what she’s doing she chucks a handful in Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier splutters, dropping his weapon. Ciri immediately freezes, her eyes going wide, her hands shooting up to her face.

“Jaskier, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sor-”

Jaskier coughs out a cloud of flour. “That’s cheating!” he says, stepping forwards, “there’s only one thing for it!” 

He dodges around her, snatches the bag of flour, and shakes it at her. Ciri squeals and makes a grab for the bag, and suddenly their duel has been forgotten in favour of a flour fight. Jaskier grabs a handful and rubs it into her hair as she throws another handful at his chest. The white stuff flies through the air, clouding the kitchen like fog, coating the surfaces. Little footprints form on the floor and are quickly covered up again as flour rains down.

The forgotten pancake begins to smoke. 

Ciri is laughing so hard her chest hurts and there’s tears streaming down her face as she manages to press two fistfuls of flour into Jaskier’s perfect hair. He grabs her, tickling her, and she squeals, dropping the bag which explodes onto the floor.

“Ahem.”

They both freeze.

Geralt stands in the doorway of the kitchen. There’s a fine coating of white powder on his dark shirt.

Ciri bites on her lip to stop herself from laughing. 

“What, exactly, is going on in here?” Geralt raises his eyebrows at them, taking in the carnage. 

“Pancakes,” says Ciri, still struggling not to laugh.

Jaskier’s eyes suddenly go wide. “ _Shit_.” He leaps for the hob, shutting it off. The final pancake is nothing more than a small, blackened circle as he slips it onto a plate.

He holds out the burnt pancake with a flourish. “Happy Father’s Day!” 


	3. Build-a-Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is super short! Posted on Tumblr a while ago - just a tiny little snippet. Extremely soft, very cute, rated G.

Jaskier takes Geralt to build a bear. Technically, Jaskier takes _Ciri_ to build a bear, but Geralt goes everywhere Ciri goes, and Ciri insists that Geralt makes a bear too. She even chooses a bear for him - one with dark fur and a crooked little smile that looks like a scowl.

Jaskier watches in delight as Geralt follows Ciri around the stations, peppy teenagers in brightly coloured uniforms asking him how well-stuffed he wants his bear (how cuddly do you want it? How soft?? Does it need to be snuggleable?!). One of them makes him do a little dance and kiss the dainty silk heart they sew into every bear - Geralt grumpily going along with the charade because he knows Ciri is watching. One of the teenagers asks him what the bear's name is - and while he's clearly resisting the urge to make fun of the birth certificate routine he holds himself back. He finally settles on the name _Roach -_ largely, Jaskier suspects, because it makes Ciri squeal. 

At the very end, they get to choose voice boxes. Ciri picks a little twinkly tune that reminds her of her grandmother. Before Geralt can choose his, Jaskier presses a little box into his hand, curling Geralt’s fingers around it as he does.

“This one is good,” he says. “Trust me.”

Later that night, after Ciri has gone to bed and Jaskier has fallen asleep on the couch halfway through an episode of Game of Thrones, Geralt pulls his grumpy little bear out of the box. He doesn’t hate it. It’s… sweet.

He squeezes the bear’s stomach, finding the voicebox. There’s a crackle - the sound of a microphone turning on - then Jaskier’s voice, clear as a bell.

_I am weak, my love, and I am wanting._

On the couch, Jaskier grumbles in his sleep. Geralt looks down at him, and there’s a hot ache in his chest. He tucks the bear under one of Jaskier’s arms, then pulls the throw from the back of the couch and drapes it over him, before settling back down near his feet.

Jaskier mumbles again, and squeezes the bear to his chest. There’s a little smile on his face.

 _I am weak,_ thinks Geralt, as Jaskier wriggles, pushing his feet on to Geralt’s lap. _And, love help me: I am wanting._


	4. Self-Defence Classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've always assumed that at some point down the line Yen and Jaskier become - not necessarily best friends - but partners in crime. This is the story of how that happens. Jaskier's the only one home when they get a call saying there's been an incident at Ciri's school and someone needs to come in. He manages to fob his way in - only to discover that Yen's there too. TW: Sexual Assault - Ciri's bra-strap is snapped by a male student and the school are dismissive of her. Yen and Jask are not. Rated T for swears. pretty much Gen fic, but there's a fair bit of Geraskier misunderstandings too.

Jaskier knows he should be working. He should be figuring out the kinks on his latest song, or following through on the dozens of emails he’s got sitting in his inbox. He should be setting up another meeting with his manager, calling around some venues to see if they’ve got performance slots or open mics in the next three months, or even - horror of horrors - _actually_ looking for a more viable day job. 

What he’s actually doing, as all these ‘ _shoulds’_ drift unheeded across his mind, is scrolling through a royalty free image site looking for a suitable photo to use for his Twitter header. It’s an important job, he tells himself. Very important. How will anyone take him seriously as an artist if his Twitter header is wrong? And then, of course, he needs to update the profile image - and update all his _other_ socials, too. If he wants to be a serious musician, he needs to have a consistent style, something that’s recognisable. 

He’s hopping between tabs of generic concert photos, totally bored, when the phone downstairs begins to ring. He’s down the stairs and grabbing the phone before the next image even has time to load. 

“Hello? This is Jaskier speaking.” 

“Good afternoon. This is Mrs.Timmer calling from St. Lebioda School. I’m looking for Mr. Rivia? I tried to get hold of him on his primary mobile but no one has picked up.” 

_Shit._ That’s Ciri’s school. Jaskier immediately feels panic claw at him. “He’s at work.” 

“Do you know when he’ll return?” 

“Not till this evening, but he’s usually got his phone on him…” Jaskier takes a steadying breath. “Is everything alright? Is it Ciri, is she okay?” 

“Unfortunately I can only discuss this with a parent or guardian. Do you have another number for Mr. Rivia?” 

“I can try to call his boss…” Jaskier’s sure he’s got Vesimir’s phone number somewhere. If not, he’s _definitely_ got Eskel’s, and if he’s lucky they’ll be on the same shift. “Or I can…” 

“We really do need a parent or guardian.” 

He swallows. “I’m… I’m one of Ciri’s guardians,” he says. It’s not _technically_ a lie. He’s an adult, and Ciri lives with him and Geralt over half of the time. That must count for something. “Ciri lives with Ger… with Mr. Rivia and I. When she’s not with her mum, I mean.” 

This is fine. This is fine, and not _really_ lying. He just needs to know that Ciri is okay, and if this is the only way to do it… he’s sure that Geralt will forgive him. 

“And your name is?” Asks the receptionist. 

“Jaskier,” he says, “Jaskier Pankratz.” 

There’s the sound of typing. He holds his breath. “Let’s see…” the receptionist mutters, the keyboard clacking away in the background, “Ah, yes; you’re listed here in our records at Ciri’s primary address. Mr. Rivia and Mr…” 

She trails off. When she talks again, her tone has totally changed: gone is the accusatory, defensive intonation she was using before. 

“Oh! Mr. Pankratz, yes. Yes, certainly, if you could head down to the school right away that would be very helpful.” 

“Ciri’s okay, though?” 

“Yes, she’s fine. Unfortunately there was an incident today involving another student and so we need someone to come down.” 

“Okay, right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

“We’ll see you then.” 

Well, that was easy. Easy _enough_. He runs back upstairs for his wallet, throws on a pair of shoes, grabs his car keys and dashes out onto the drive. 

\--- 

Jaskier arrives at the school nearly ten minutes later, his old yellow VW Beetle struggling somewhat over the last mile or so. He pulls into an empty spot in the wide carpark and heads towards the reception. He has to be buzzed in, and waits outside, nervously fiddling. He peers ininside - he can’t see Ciri, or _anyone_ , for that matter. 

The door finally buzzes and he pulls it open, heading for the reception desk. The middle aged receptionist - the one he spoke to earlier, he assumes - greets him. 

“Hi,” he says, “I’m Jaskier. Jaskier Pankratz. I think we spoke on the phone earlier about Ciri?” 

“Oh yes!” She says, “Of course. Mr. Borel - the headteacher - he’s just sorting everything out, so you can wait here for a moment and I’ll let you know when he’s ready to see you both.” 

“Both?” He wonders if Geralt had finally picked up his phone. If he had, he was going to have a lot more explaining to do a lot sooner than he’d hoped. 

“Yes! Thankfully we managed to get through to Ciri’s mother, she’s on her way now.” 

_Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck._

“Ciri’s… mother, you say?” He tries not to betray how he’s feeling. Yen will almost certainly send him packing. 

“Yes, we left both her and Mr. Rivia messages and she called us back just after I spoke to you. It’s really wonderful that you’ve both decided to come down, it really helps our students to have a really solid support network like this.” 

“I… yes. It’s great.” 

“If you don’t mind, you can just take a seat in our waiting area,” she gestures to a few chairs leaning against the far wall, “and I’ll let you know when we need you.” 

“Thank you. I’ll… go wait, then.” 

He turns to leave, when she suddenly speaks again. “And, Mr. Pankratz, I also wanted to apologise for my tone on the phone.” 

He frowns. “It’s fine, really. You were just doing your job.” 

“Yes, of course, but… well, it was highly unprofessional of me. We really are dedicated to ensuring that all kinds of families are…” 

She’s cut off by the ringing of the entrance door. Yen. She spots Jaskier through the glass immediately, looking _furious_. 

He wonders, vaguely, if he might be able to make a quick escape. Probably not. 

“Ah, one moment…” 

The receptionist buzzes her in. She strides across the lobby, and Jaskier automatically backs away, trying not to trip over his own feet. 

“How can I-” the receptionist begins. 

“Yennefer. I’m here to see Ciri. We spoke a few minutes ago.” 

“Of course. The headteacher is just talking to another student’s father, and then you can go through. If you want to wait just here, I’ll let you know when we’re ready.” 

“Fine.” 

Yen turns to Jaskier, who’s trying his very best to blend in with the trophy case bolted to the wall. 

“Yennefer!” he says, trying to sound upbeat, “lovely to see you!” 

Yen waits until the receptionist has bustled back into the back room behind the desk before rounding on him. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I picked up a call from the school.” 

“And?” 

“ _And_ I was worried about Ciri, and they couldn’t get hold of Geralt. So I just thought…” 

“Oh, yes, just _thought_. What did you tell them?” 

“Nothing! I just said that Geralt was at work, but I lived with him. _She_ ,” he gestures towards the empty reception desk, “asked me to come over.” 

“Only because no one else could, Jaskier. They clearly don’t need you now _I’m_ here.” 

“I think you’ll find, _Yennefer_ , that they called me too.” 

“They called _Geralt_. You just… happened to be there. Go home.” 

“And what if I refuse?” 

“You _can’t_ refuse, because I am _telling_ you to fu-” 

“Ah! You’re here!” 

They both turn at the sudden intrusion into their argument. A round, red-faced man stands in front of them wearing an ill-fitting suit and what’s clearly supposed to be a disarming smile. 

“You must be Ciri’s mother. A pleasure to meet you,” he says, gripping Yen’s hand in a handshake. Jaskier winces - he’s been on the receiving end of one of Yen’s handshakes more than once. The headteacher, to his credit, doesn’t seem phased. “And, ah, you’re Ciri’s step-father, I assume?” He says, turning to Jaskier. 

_Oh, bollocks_. A lot of pieces fall into place all at once. So _that’s_ why they were happy to call him in. And it would _also_ explain why the receptionist was so apologetic. He’s about to correct him, but Yen gets there first. 

“ _Actually_ , he-” She begins, but finds herself interrupted. 

“Wonderful, wonderful,” says the man, totally ignoring her, “Very good, nice to see such a… _modern_ family. I’m Mr. Borel, Ciri’s headteacher.” 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Borel, but-” 

“Now if you _will_ excuse me, I’ve just got to go and see the other student’s father, so I’ll be just one moment.” 

“But-” 

“Just wait here, and my receptionist will call you when we’re ready.” 

He sweeps past both of them and down the corridor. For a moment, they’re both speechless. 

“What an _absolute_ arsehole,” says Jaskier, as soon as the man has turned the corner. 

“Hmm,” agrees Yennefer, crossing her arms across her chest. 

Jaskier slouches against the wall, looking the picture of a naughty schoolboy. “You think Ciri’s gotten herself into trouble?” 

“You think she _hasn’t_ gotten herself into trouble?” 

“Fair,” Jaskier chuckles. 

Yen examines him, for a moment, before speaking. “You really should leave, you know.” She says. 

He slouches even further down the wall. “Bit late _now_ , don’t you think? How will you explain that to _him?”_ He nods down the corridor that the headteacher had disappeared down. “He’s probably told Ciri we’re both here, now, anyway…” 

Yen groans. “Fine. _Fine._ But _I’m_ doing all the talking. As far as anyone is concerned, you’re just… moral support. For Ciri. Clear?” 

“Abundantly.” 

They stand there, in stony silence, for a couple of minutes, before the receptionist reappears. 

“All ready!” She says, infuriatingly chipper. “I’ll show you to Mr. Borel’s office now.” 

She bustles ahead of them, leading them down the corridor. They stop at a wooden door, upon which she knocks. 

“Mr. Borel,” she says, “Ciri’s mother and step-father are here.” 

Yen and Jaskier share a look, but say nothing. 

“Come in, please.” The headteacher’s voice is muffled by the thick wood. The receptionist gives them a last smile before opening the door, then heading away. Yen sets her shoulders, takes a breath, and strides into the room, Jaskier following behind. 

There’s already a small group of people waiting in the large room. Ciri stands in one corner, looking flushed - but smug. In the other corner is a boy Jaskier doesn’t recognise, fiddling with his phone. Seated next to the head master’s desk is an older man in a suit - an _expensive_ suit, Jaskier notes. The boy’s father, he assumes. 

The headteacher smiles as they enter. “Ah, welcome!” He says, cordially. “I really am sorry to have to call you all here like this,” he nods towards the boy’s father, too, “but unfortunately this sort of behaviour requires immediate attention. Would you like to take a seat?” 

He waves a hand towards the two chairs placed next to the one currently occupied by the angry-looking man. Jaskier sits, but Yennefer does not. 

“I’d prefer to stand,” she says, placing her hands on the back of the chair. Jaskier peers up at Ciri in the corner. They both look back at Yen. Both of them know that look. 

Jaskier shuffles his chair a couple of inches away from her. 

“As you know,” says the headteacher, “My name is Mr. Borel. This,” he nods towards the man, “is Edmond Gifford. He’s the father of Boris, here. The other student involved in this… incident.” 

Yen gives Edmond a curt nod, which he returns. 

“Mr. Gifford, this is Yennefer Vengerburg, Ciri’s mother, and Jaskier Pankratz, her step-father.” 

Ciri’s eyes widen. Jaskier spots her look of shock, and shakes his head just a fraction. She bites down on her lips - clearly stifling a laugh. She looks even _more_ smug, her expression clear: _You’re going to be in trouble, later._

“Good, good. As you will have heard, there was an incident today at the beginning of lunch, and we-” 

“She attacked my boy!” 

“She _what?”_ Yen turns her gaze to Ciri. Her cheeky expression vanishes, and she suddenly looks cowed. 

“Thank you, Mr. Gifford.” Mr. Borel sighs. “Yes, unfortunately that is the case. There were _multiple_ witnesses, including teachers.” 

Yen blinks a couple of times. She ignores the adults in the room, and instead talks directly to Ciri. 

“ _Did_ you attack this boy, Ciri?” 

“Yes, but-” 

“There you have it!” Mr. Gifford leaps up, pointing an accusatory finger at Ciri, “I see no reason why we need to continue this charade, Sir. The girl admits to it, and she’s clearly not sorry-” Ciri smirks, at that, “It’s a clear-cut issue. She must be punished for assaulting my boy.” 

“That _is_ why we’re here, Sir…” 

“Then get _on with it_ , for Melitele’s sake. I’ve got other things to do than sit around waiting, you know.” 

“Ciri,” says Yen, totally ignoring the increasingly enraged man, “What happened?” 

“He wouldn’t leave me alone!” Ciri stepped forwards, hands raised, “I _told_ him to fuck off-” 

“Ciri!” Mr. Borel cuts her off, “that is _not_ appropriate language for school. If you can’t be more polite then I’ll have to ask you to remain silent.” 

Ciri huffs. Yen looks _furious_. “I told Boris to leave me alone,” Ciri says, clearly trying to reign herself in. “I told him to _go away_ loads of times and he didn’t.” 

“That’s hardly reason to assault him,” says Mr. Borel, tapping an impatient finger on the desk. 

“Well that’s not why I did it, is it?” Says Ciri. 

“Then why-” begins Boris’ father, but Ciri shouts over him. 

“He snapped my bra strap!” 

Yennefer and Jaskier speak at the same time. 

“He _what?”_

_“Excuse me?”_

Their voices are equally venomous - equally dangerous. The headteacher doesn’t seem to register the sudden, icy atmosphere. 

“Even if that _is_ the case, Ciri, you cannot resort to violence. It’s just not acceptable. If Boris was bothering you, you should have told your teacher; not escalated the situation.” 

“I _did_ tell my teacher! I told her the _fifth_ time it happened, two weeks ago!” 

“Well, then.” 

“And _she_ told me to ignore him! She said that he was only doing it to get a reaction out of me and if I ignored him then he’d stop.” 

“And yet you still neglected to take that advice and chose instead to physically attack Boris?” 

Ciri throws her hands in the air, exasperated. It’s clear she’s had this argument before. 

Jaskier steps forwards. “Are you telling me,” he says, pointing at Mr. Borel, “that one of _your_ teachers told Ciri to ‘ignore’ this… this _creature_ continually harassing her?” 

“Well, Jaskier-” 

“That’s _Mr. Pankratz_ , to you.” Jaskier’s head snaps around at Yen’s voice. Her chin is in the air, her expression defiant. She gives him the smallest nod. 

“Mr. Pankratz… we take these sorts of accusations _very_ seriously at our school-” 

“Clearly not,” spits Yen, moving to stand beside Jaskier, “or else one of your _fine_ teachers wouldn’t have advised Ciri to simply _ignore_ the boy harassing her. Do you _truly_ think that’s good enough?” 

“Ms. Vengerburg-” 

“No, I’m talking now. You allowed this boy to sexually harass my daughter. I could have you fired. I _should_ have you fired.” 

“That’s not what-” 

“Ciri.” Yen speaks over him, ignoring him, addressing her daughter. “You say this was a repeat incident?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And has he done this to anyone else?” 

She snorts. “Like, half the girls in our class. He’s a shithead.” 

The headmaster gasps. “Ciri!” 

“What? He _is!_ He’s been creepy around _loads_ of us.” She pauses, and there’s a little smile on her face. “They cheered when I tossed him, it was great.” 

“You _what_ him?” 

Ciri looks, for the first time, a little nervous. “Ah, well…” 

Boris' father takes this time to speak up. “You mean to tell me you don’t know what she did?” 

“No. We don’t,” replies Jaskier, “yet why do I suspect you’re going to tell us?” 

His face grows even redder. “That… that little _devil_ , she grabbed my poor Boris and threw him! Threw him right over her shoulder!” 

Jaskier has to bite back a laugh. Yen, blessed with a better poker face, turns back to Ciri. “Well?” 

“I didn’t throw him over my shoulder, gods.” Yen raises an eyebrow. Ciri sighs. “I just… threw him. He’s not _that_ much bigger than me and he was off balance anyway so I just… threw him. A bit.” 

“Oh _gods_ ,” Jaskier is giggling, now - he can’t help it. “Is that one of your dad’s moves?” 

Ciri blushes. “Maybe.” 

“She is _extremely_ lucky that Boris wasn’t hurt,” says Mr. Borel, trying to regain control of the situation. “We simply cannot tolerate-” 

“This kind of behaviour, yes, yes we get it.” Yennefer is clearly done with this situation, now - bored of the prattling of these men. “You’ve decided that this boy’s right to harass the girls in his class is more important than the girls’ right to defend themselves, you’ve made that perfectly clear.” 

“I didn’t say-” 

“ _And so_ ,” Yen continues, louder, “you’ve decided that Ciri must be punished. Is that it?” 

The headteacher looks like this is firmer ground. “That is the case, yes.” 

“Finally we’ve reached a concept you appear to understand. And you intend to, what? Suspend her?” 

“Well, as this is a first offence…” 

“What? No!” Mr. Gifford jumps up, “You have to expel the little beast!” 

“That is _not_ how this school runs, Sir,” says the headteacher, calmly. “There’s a three-strike policy. Ciri’s punishment _will_ be severe, but we try to avoid expelling students. Perhaps a managed move, should the behaviour continue…” he looks thoughtful, for a moment, then continues, “Ciri will be sent home for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, she’ll spend the day in isolation-” Ciri groans, at that, but he continues, “and we’ll arrange a restorative meeting with her form tutor, head of year, and of course Boris will attend as well.” 

Boris' father splutters. “That’s not good enough!” 

“That is _policy,”_ says Mr. Borel, sighing. “But if this happens again, then I will have no choice but to ensure a more severe punishment.” He stands, pushing back his chair and heading towards Yennefer and Jaskier. “Ciri needs to leave the school premises. I hope you both understand the severity of her behaviour today. The school and the home must work _together_ to curb these sorts of things, you know. I expect you will punish her in whichever way you deem suitable?” 

Yen frowns, and Jaskier can tell she’s only seconds away from screaming at the man or striking him - so he grabs her arm, gently, tugging her back. 

“Oh, of course,” he says, looking over Mr. Borel’s shoulder to where Ciri stands in the corner. “Punished, certainly. Very severely. We’ll see to that.” 

“Thank you.” 

Yen gives him a sideways glance, and he squeezes her arm once more before letting go. “And, ah… when he’s back from work, I’ll make sure Ciri’s dad gives you a ring, shall I? I tell him all that’s gone on here. I’m sure he’ll be _very_ keen to speak to you.” 

He glances at Yen - a little conspiratorial look - she blinks, once, then gets it. 

“That would be ideal, yes. Mr. Rivia obviously needs to be a part of this conversation.” 

“Couldn’t agree more,” says Jaskier, nodding. “So - if that’s quite all - we’ll be taking Ciri home, then?” 

“Yes, that’s-” 

“Good. Right, then; come on, Ciri!” 

Ciri obeys immediately, dashing towards them. 

Yen gives the headteacher one long, icy look as Jaskier quickly herds Ciri out of the office. 

“It was nice to meet you, Sir,” she says, poison dripping from her tongue, “it’s been very… _enlightening.”_

“I… ah… likewise, Ms. Vengerberg. I look forward to hearing from Ciri’s father so we can further discuss-” 

“Yes, yes.” She waves him off, “Understood.” 

She shoots a final look at Boris and his father, then turns on her heel and strides from the room. 

Yennefer finds Ciri and Jaskier a little way down the corridor, out of earshot from the headteacher’s office, giggling. 

“Ahem.” 

They both turn to look at her, quickly stifling their laughter. 

“Ah, mum, I…” Ciri looks genuinely remorseful, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have-” 

“None of that.” Yen cuts her off. “Don’t apologise, to me _or_ that boy. Unless they make you, which I’m sure they will. What an ignorant little _shit_ your headteacher is.” 

Ciri snorts. 

“D’you think they _will_ make me apologise?” 

Jaskier sighs. “ _Restorative meeting_ , he said,” he says, leaning against the wall, “that sounds an awful lot like that bastard kid sits there and feels smug while _you_ say sorry.” 

“Urgh.” 

“It’s fine, I’ll teach you the fine art of the fake apology on the way home.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. It’s very good. _Very_ convincing. And useful, too.” 

Ciri grins again. “And… _are_ you going to tell dad?” 

“Are you kidding?” Jaskier laughs, “Obviously, yes.” 

“Shit.” 

Yen waves a dismissive hand at her. “Ciri, do you _really_ think he’ll be taking that boy’s side in this? If anything, he’ll buy you a present…” she thinks, then turns to Jaskier, “Very nice move, by the way, telling Mr. Borel that Geralt would talk to him. I would _love_ to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.” 

“He might want a meeting with him, too,” says Jaskier, moving away from the wall and beginning down the corridor towards the front doors. “You can get a front-row seat to that. Tell them that you want to show, what is it… a united front? He seemed keen on all that holistic crap, tell them, I don’t know..” he puts on an elevated accent, “ _We don’t want the divorce to to negatively impact Ciri's education._ ” 

Yen smiles, despite herself. “Not a bad idea...” She places a hand on Ciri’s shoulder as they make their way past the reception desk and through the large, double-doored entrance. “Does that ‘united front’ include step-fathers?” 

Jaskier feels himself blush, and Yen turns away from him, towards Ciri. 

“Have you had lunch, Ciri?” 

Ciri kicks at a stone on the path, sending it skittering across the carpark. “No. It happened right outside the restaurant and they wouldn’t let me in.” 

“Right,” Yen puts a finger to her chin in thought, “I suppose we’ll do that first, then. What do you want?” 

Another stone goes flying across the carpark, narrowly missing a huge Jeep parked in a spot marked _headteacher_. “What?” Says Ciri, frowning. 

“For lunch,” says Yen, absent-mindedly, “what do you want? Anything.” 

“Wait… _anything_?” 

“Sure. Pizza, burgers… your choice.” 

“Can we… can we go to McDonalds?” 

Yen winces. “Yes,” she says, looking pained. “We can go to McDonalds.” She turns to Jaskier, who’s stood, hand in pockets, waiting to awkwardly be told to leave. “You’re coming, I assume? Step-father?” 

Jaskier blinks. “What?” 

“You’re coming? Or have you suddenly developed a refined palate?” 

Jaskier reels, but tries not to show it. He’s not sure Yen’s said this many words to him at once _ever_ without a significantly more devastating blow on his character. She’s certainly ever invited him to lunch - even if it _is_ just McDonalds. 

“No, yes! Right. I’d love to join you. If that’s… okay?” Truly, he’s not sure if he’d really _choose_ to spend the rest of the day with Yen, but... well, Ciri’s still a little shaken up, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want a chance to continue bitching about her obnoxious headmaster. 

“Sure. Ciri?” 

Ciri glances between Yen and Jaskier, looking suspicious. 

“...Alright,” she says, brows knotting together, “Yeah. But!” She holds a warning finger in the air, and suddenly, somehow, she looks a lot like her adopted father, “No fighting! Got it?” 

“Understood,” agrees Jaskier. 

Yen doesn’t say anything - just nods. 

“Good, then.” She says, straightening up like the picture of authority - even though she’s a head shorter than both of them, “McDonalds it is.” 

“Come on, then,” Says Yen, heading towards the spot where her Jaguar is parked. “Did you drive, Jaskier?” 

Jaskier spots the little look of disgust that crosses her face - an expression she reserves for his beloved yellow beetle. “I did, yeah.” 

“You can meet us there, then? At that retail park down the road.” 

Jaskier smiles, sweetly. He _knows_ that the reason why they’re taking separate cars is because there’s only one passenger seat in her Jaguar, yet it still feels like a dig. 

“Got it. Meet you there, then.” 

“Meet you there.” 

Ciri gives him a quick wave before sliding into the passenger seat of the car, which he returns, then heads towards his own rather less expensive ride. He tugs the door open, winds down the window, gives the CD player a quick thump, then sets off, following close behind the shiny blackness of the Jaguar. 

\--- 

It’s nearly half past three when Geralt finally bursts through the front door. He makes a bee-line for the lounge, following the sound of voices. 

“I came home as soon as Ves would let me… I’ve got four missed calls from the school, three voicemails, and-” 

He looks up. Yen has Jaskier pinned to the far wall, his arm twisted behind his back, while Ciri perches on the sofa, a paper bag full of sweets clasped in one hand. 

“...What the _hell_ is going on?” 

They all turn to look at him. Ciri at least looks a little guilty - Jaskier giggles, and Yen unhands him, like nothing’s even happening. 

“We’re teaching,” she says, simply. 

“Teaching _what?”_

“Self-defense.” It’s like it’s obvious. 

“I’ve got a voicemail from a teacher going on about… unacceptable physical force, or something. What happened?” 

“Ciri was merely demonstrating to one of the other students a very… valuable lesson,” Says Yen, with a dangerously sweet smile. 

“Meaning?” 

“Meaning your daughter threw one of her classmates to the floor using what I’ve been assured is a move _you_ taught her.” 

“Ah.” 

“Hey!” Ciri jumps off the sofa, spilling sweets as she did, “That’s not what happened.” 

“No?” Says Geralt, raising an eyebrow, “so you _didn’t_ throw them?” 

“Oh, no,” Jaskier laughs, “she definitely did.” 

Ciri purses her lips. “He was annoying me! He kept creeping on me and the other girls and he snapped my bra strap _again_ so I just, you know. Threw him. Like you showed me.” 

“You - you _threw_ -” he suddenly registers what else she’d said. “He snapped your bra strap? _Again?”_

“Yes! I told my teacher but she told me to ignore him.” 

Geralt is, apparently, speechless. He flops down onto the sofa. “But that didn’t work...” he says, after a long pause, “So you threw him?” 

“Yep.” She doesn’t even look _guilty_. He peers at the other adults - Yen looking typically unreadable and Jaskier positively _giddy_. 

“And the headteacher-” Geralt begins, but gets cut off by Jaskier. 

“Was a complete _dick_.” 

“He’s not… incorrect,” concedes Yen, folding her arms across her chest. “He was dismissive of Ciri, and then when I - when we _both_ questioned him, he merely doubled down.” 

“And the other kid?” 

“Getting off without so much as a slap on the wrist, by all accounts.” 

“ _Fantastic_.” Geralt sighs, rubbing his face. 

“I told the headteacher you’d ring him when you got home,” says Jaskier. “He said he’d be waiting for your call. He seemed very keen to talk to you.” 

“Did he, now?” 

“I suspect he’s hoping that out of the three of us, you might be the reasonable one,” Yen adds. Her expression makes it clear that she doesn’t think this is the case. 

“Reasonable?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“He expects me to be _reasonable_ after he told _my daughter_ that she can’t defend herself? And let the little shit who’s been harassing her _get away with it?”_

“Something like that, yes.” 

“For fuck’s…” He spots Ciri’s cheeky grin, and grimaces. “This will certainly make for an interesting conversation.” 

Geralt stands, pulling his phone from his pocket. He begins to cycle through the missed calls, looking for the right number. He finds it, then turns to Yen. 

“Are you…?” 

“Going home? Absolutely not. I want to see how this plays out. That little _shit_ wouldn’t listen to me _or_ Jaskier. I want to hear what he has to say to you, too.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes. “If I get in trouble-” 

“Then it’ll be your own fault for shouting at Ciri’s headteacher.” 

“Fine. Just… don’t say anything, okay?” 

She nods, with a little grin. Geralt goes to hit the call button, when Jaskier speaks up. 

“Ah, Geralt,” he hesitates, “there is… _one_ thing…” 

“Oh? What else? Did one of you slap him?” 

Yen snorts. “I wish.” 

“Not that. Nothing like that! It’s just, well… they called the house first, and I thought - you know - I was worried about Ciri, so…” 

“So?” 

“So… the issue is, Geralt, they uh… got the wrong end of the stick, a little.” 

“Meaning?” 

“Meaning I think ‘congratulations’ are in order,” says Yen, raising a single eyebrow. “It appears you’ve just acquired yourself a husband.” 

“ _What?”_

“They… assumed I was Ciri’s step father,” says Jaskier, looking guilty. “And, look, we were _going_ to correct them-” 

“ _I_ was going to correct them.” 

“ _Thanks_ , Yen - but, well, they just shoved us into this meeting with this kid’s dad and there wasn’t really an _opportunity_ to say anything, and if I _had_ said something, they’d have kicked me out! Oh _yes_ , they’re really keen to have a parents-and-random-housemate meeting, _sure_.” 

“So… he thinks…” 

“He thinks that you and Jaskier are married, yes.” Says Yen. She says it so easily - so _simply_ \- but her eyes are sparkling. 

“...Right.” He’s not sure what else he can say. 

“So,” she tilts her head to one side. “Are you calling him, or?” 

“Okay. Fine. But _behave_ ,” he thinks, for a second. “ _All_ of you.” 

He hits the button and listens to the dial tone, waiting. After what feels like an age, a receptionist finally picks up. “Hello. Yes, this is Mr Rivia. Yeah… Ciri’s dad. I had a voicemail from..? Yes, okay.” He lapses into silence, staring at the ceiling, tapping an inpatient foot. He sighs. Jaskier, Yen and Ciri are watching him with interest. Then another voice crackles to life in his ear. 

“Mr. Rivia?” 

“Speaking.” 

“Ah, marvellous. This is Mr. Borel, Ciri’s headteacher.” 

Geralt doesn't respond - merely waits for the man to continue. He does, after a long silence. 

“I… was assured that the message would be passed along to you about Ciri’s little… incident today?” 

“It has been.” 

“Right, right…” Geralt can sense the nervousness in the man’s tone. Good. Clearly he’s still somewhat shaken from his experience with Yen and Jaskier. “I just think that we really need to make sure we're all on the same page about Ciri’s behaviour going forwards.” 

“Of course.” 

The teacher seems to be happier with this. “I’m glad you agree, Mr. Rivia. Very glad. So I-” 

“I’d like you to explain, once more, what actually happened,” says Geralt, cutting him off, “Just so I’m fully aware of the situation.” 

“Oh! Yes, of course. It’s fairly simple. Your daughter - Ciri - assaulted another student while waiting in line for our on-site restaurant.” Geralt allows another long silence, until the teacher is forced to continue. “Ah, to be precise, she… she threw him, I’m afraid to say, in what I’ve been told is a martial arts move. Entirely inappropriate outside of a club or gym, I’m sure you’ll agree.” 

“And is that everything?” 

“I… yes, Sir, I’m sure you can-” 

“Why did she throw him?” 

“Pardon me, Sir?” 

“I taught my daughter that move. We train together. Those moves are only to be used in self-defence. Was my daughter defending herself?” 

“Obviously no-” 

“Because I’ve been informed by Ciri, and her mother, that she was responding to continued harassment from this boy.” 

“I’m not sure-” 

“In fact, Ciri told me that he’s put his hands on her _multiple_ times, and that while waiting in the queue he snapped her bra strap. She _also_ informs me that she isn’t the first girl he’s done this to.” 

“I-” 

Geralt continues, voice getting just a _little_ louder. “When I asked her what your school’s reaction was to this continued sexual harassment, she told me that one of your teachers had told her to _ignore him_. Is that right?” 

“The school has a very strict policy for these sorts of-” 

“Does it? So explain to me, then, why my daughter is being punished for defending herself and her peers while this boy-” 

“Boris.” 

“While _Boris_ is allowed to continue this behaviour?” 

There is a long, heavy silence. Yen and Jaskier are watching Geralt, waiting. Ciri, still perched on the sofa, seems to have forgotten about the sweet still in her mouth. 

Finally, Mr. Borel speaks. “The school is dedicated to-” 

“Has he been sent home, like my daughter? Has he been…” he looks towards Yen, suddenly unsure. 

“ _Isolated,_ ” she mouths. 

“...Isolated? Or is he attending classes as usual?” 

“I cannot discuss the education of our other students with you, I’m afraid, Mr. Rivia. It’s quite against our safeguarding-” 

“So he’s not being punished, then?” 

“Due to our safeguarding policy I can’t-” 

“Understood. I think I’ve heard enough, Mr. Borel. I’ll speak to Ciri about her behaviour. Is that all?” 

“Mr. Rivia, I really want to impart the seriousness of-” 

Geralt hangs up on him. He looks at the others’ expectant faces. “What a prick.” 

Ciri bursts out laughing. Geralt can’t help but smile, too. He’s proud of her: proud of her for standing up for herself, for doing _something_ when all the adults around her were encouraging her to do _nothing_. But… he’d promised her grandmother he’d look after her: promised that she’d flourish, that he’d take her under his wing. He knew, of course, that Calanthe would be _delighted_ by the whole affair, but he can’t risk her getting expelled. He can’t risk even the _slight_ possibility that someone, somewhere, will decide he’s suddenly _unfit_ to be her father. 

“Look, Ciri,” he says, “I get it, I really do. But you can’t just throw people around. You’ll get in even _more_ trouble, and then the school will be after us,” he gestures at himself and Yen, “too.” 

“My point exactly,” says Yen. “Hence the self-defence lessons you so rudely interrupted.” 

He sighs. “Meaning?” 

“Look, darling, your methods are perfectly _fine_ in your line of work, but unfortunately Ciri’s going to have to learn to be a little more… subtle. As demonstrated today.” 

“Subtle?” 

“Twisting an arm, pain points, knowing exactly where to kick an ankle to bring someone down… knowing which personal defence items are illegal, which aren’t, and which _might_ be.” 

“ _And_ ,” Jaskier adds, looking pleased, “the art of the fake apology. How to confess without actually confessing. Getting away with murder. The masterful skill of saying _only_ what someone wants to hear while never actually implicating yourself further…” 

Geralt looks between them, aghast. “Thank the gods she’s got you two around, then,” he says. 

“Indeed. Geralt,” Yen places a comforting hand on his arm, “it’s all very well having her know how to throw a boy twice her size over her shoulder, but unfortunately that sort of thing doesn’t _really_ fly in the playground. We’re just ensuring she’s got, hmm…” 

“Plausible deniability,” finishes Jaskier, helpfully. 

“Exactly.” 

Geralt glances at Ciri, who’s grinning like a little cat. “I hope you two understand the monster you’re going to create,” he says. 

“She’ll only be a monster if she actually _practices_ the moves I showed her. Geralt; I’m sure you know _some_ self defence that isn’t all… punching and throwing and showing off?” Geralt nods. “Good. _Do_ try to include some of that into your routines, hmm? While I’ve nothing against our daughter throwing some incorrigible little shit into the dirt, I _do_ have a problem with getting calls from the school while I’m halfway through a meeting, and I’ve no desire to deal with her headteacher again for at _least_ six months.” 

“But-” 

“Geralt.” 

There was no arguing with that tone. “Fine. But how am I supposed to demonstrate? If she doesn’t use proper technique she could dislocate someone’s elbow, and there’s no way they won’t expel her for that.” 

“Use Jaskier.” 

Jaskier splutters, and they both turn to look at him. He’s blushing, furiously. “I-” he starts. 

“He’s very easy to demonstrate on. And I assume,” she fixes him under a gaze that Geralt can’t quite read, “he’ll be _extremely_ willing.” 

“Well, if it’s - you know - for _Ciri_ …” 

“There, see? Perfectly happy. Thank you, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier makes a little noise of assent. His ears have gone pink. 

“Wonderful.” She smiles at them both - her famous, _everything-is-settled_ smile that never leaves room for argument. “Well, it’s been a truly lovely day but unfortunately I really do have to go,” Yen grabs her phone and her bag from the side and heads towards the front door. “Jaskier, we… should do this again, sometime. What was it Ciri’s headmaster said? It’s good for her to have a _modern_ family.” She clicks open the door, then turns, as if remembering something. “And by the way, Geralt, _next time_ you get married, you really ought to invite me. See you next week!” 

And with that, she’s gone. 

“So…” says Jaskier, drawing the sound out, playing with it, “I’ve had a… _a morning_ , but I’ve got some work to finish so… yes. I should go and…” he points, vaguely, up the stairs, “...go and do... that. See you later!” 

Even Geralt can see his flushed face, the skin hotly pink on the back of his neck as he dashes past, and stumbles up the stairs in a rush. Ciri jumps up from the sofa and leans through the doorway. 

“See you later, stepdad!” She shouts after him, grinning. 

Geralt looks down at her, trying to force himself to scowl. 

“What?” She asks, the picture of innocence. Geralt tries his very best to look at least _annoyed_ , but he suspects it isn’t working. He can’t help but imagine the look on Jaskier’s face - even now - when he was mistaken for Geralt’s… for his… _well._

Ciri grins. “I’m gonna head up too,” she says, “I’ve got, like, _loads_ of homework to do.” She heads towards the staircase too, but pauses at the bottom, one hand on the rail. “You’re blushing, by the way. _Adorable_.” 

Geralt barely has a chance to defend himself - to argue back - before she gives him a final, infuriatingly cheeky smile and then dashes up the stairs. 


	5. Stargazer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier convinces Geralt to go stargazing with him. Geralt reluctantly agrees - even though the tradition now holds some painful memories. As he stares up at the dark night sky, he realises something about himself - and Jaskier. Rated T for swears. Extremely fluffy, contains an awful lot of pining. Is it unrequited love?? (No, no it isn't.)

Jaskier strides into the living room, his favourite blanket balled in his arms. He stands directly between Geralt and the TV, which is currently showing a documentary about… something. Jaskier doesn’t stop to check what.

“Come on,” he says, trying to sound authoritative. “Get your shoes on. Time to go outside.”

Geralt peers out the window at the pitch-black sky, then back to Jaskier. “You’re in the way.”

“I’m aware. Are you coming?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The meteor shower, Geralt. The whatchamacallits. The Perseids.”

Geralt blinks.

“Come on, Geralt, I know you watch them every year, so-”

“What?”

“You _told_ me. You said about Vesemir, when you were a kid, and then…” _Shit, don’t mention Yen,_ “...later. After you moved out. Are you coming or not?”

Geralt looks dumbstruck. Finally, he speaks. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

Jaskier dumps the blanket on the sofa next to Geralt and folds his arms across his chest. “Oh, don’t be a grump,” he says, “it’s _stargazing_ , for Melitele’s sake. Even _you_ can’t get grumpy about _stargazing_.”

“Hmm.” Geralt makes a dedicated attempt to continue watching the TV through Jaskier. 

“Look,” says Jaskier, sternly, “I know that… I know that you usually do this with Yen. Or you _have_ done, for the past however many years. I know it’s shitty, thinking about it. But gods, Geralt: do you know how many exes I watched those fucking stars with? Dozens! And even though each of them left me a _wounded_ and _broken hearted man_ …” Geralt rolls his eyes at that, and Jaskier suddenly knows he’s on the right track, “you know what I do? I watch them every year anyway. Because they’re _my_ stars, and I’m not having some shitty ex ruin that for me.”

He pauses. Geralt is staring at him.

“Not that Yen’s shitty,” he adds, quickly. “Heartbreak is shitty. As a… a concept.”

Geralt stands, suddenly. Jaskier backs away. “Uh…”

“Okay.”

“...What?”

“Okay,” repeats Geralt, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. “Garden?”

And he stalks past him. Jaskier shrugs, grabs the blanket, and hurries after him into the dining room, where Geralt is pulling open the patio doors. Jaskier knows by now not to question Geralt’s occasionally unpredictable moods, and ducks under one of his arms onto the patio.

“Come on, then,” He says, tossing the blanket onto the patio table and grabbing one side.

“What are you-” Geralt starts, but is cut off as Jaskier begins to tug, the table screeching unpleasantly across the patio. He jumps forward. “Wait, wait!” He calls over the noise, “Jaskier, what are you _doing?”_

Jaskier looks down at the table, then back up at Geralt. “Moving the table,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier sighs, and places his hands on his hips.

“Right,” he says, slowly, “I’m gonna move the table,” he points, “over _there_ ,” he points to the centre of the garden, “so we can see the stars better without, you know, breaking our necks.”

“What does the table have to do with the stars?”

“We’re going to lie on it.”

Geralt frowns at him, and Jaskier can see him suddenly regretting agreeing to go along with this.

“It's fine,” he says, rolling his eyes, “It’s strong enough. And it’s this or neck strain. Come on.”

There’s a moment when he’s sure Geralt is going to argue - but he shrugs, then steps forwards and grabs the opposite edge of the table. “Where do you want it?”

Jaskier grins, and together they manoeuvre the table into the centre of the garden, further away from the lights of their neighbour’s houses. Jaskier hops onto it then leans back, lying flat across the surface.

“There,” he says, “now _that’s_ a view. Not even any trees in the way…”

He turns his head and watches Geralt, who pauses, one hand lingering on the cool plastic surface, then walks around and - after a second - slowly heaves himself up onto the table. There’s a creek, but the table is sturdy, and he gently lowers himself down so he’s lying next to Jaskier.

“See?” says Jaskier, smiling, “Told you it’s a better view this way.”

“Hmm.”

“Now…” Jaskier reaches around and grabs the blanket, “all we need to do is wait.” A sudden thought strikes him. “Are you cold?”

Geralt turns to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“I mean,” Jaskier sighs, “do you, ah… want some blanket?”

He isn’t really expecting Geralt to say yes - Geralt isn’t a _stargazing under a blanket_ sort of person, however much Jaskier would like him to be. To his credit, he at least appears to be thinking about it before shutting him down.

“I’m okay,” he says, simply.

“Right.”

Jaskier pulls the blanket up over him, burying his hands into the soft fabric. He lets out a sigh - a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

“You okay?”

Jaskier starts. He must have sounded a lot sadder than he realised. “I… ah… it’s silly.”

“Try me.”

He smiles. “It’s… gods, okay: The shower always used to be just before the Summer results at the Academy. I’d go out and watch them, and, you know, it felt like…” he thinks, “like luck? If I saw them, it’d all be okay.”

“And was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Was it all okay?”

Jaskier pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders and turns to peer at Geralt. “...Yeah, it was.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, just continues staring up at the expanse of sky above them, the smallest smile creeping on his face.

“So,” Jaskier says, after deciding that he’s let the silence linger long enough, “you said that your dad - Vesemir - taught you about the stars?”

Geralt chuckles. “Yeah. He did. To this day I don’t know why. He’s always been more… practical.”

“You can navigate by the stars,” says Jaskier, thoughtfully.

“Sure, if you’re a sea-faring Skellige warrior from a thousand years ago,” muses Geralt, “or… I don’t know, some knight errant or mercenary who lived before they invented roads and maps and smartphones.”

“Maybe he was worried you’d get lost. I’ve _met_ your brothers, I know what you’re like.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt says, “or perhaps he figured it was what dads are supposed to do. Camping and star-gazing and building fires.”

Jaskier coughs. “I wouldn’t know.”

There’s a pause. “Anyway,” says Geralt, “he taught me. He tried to teach all of us. I don’t think Lambert was ever listening, though…”

Jaskier snorts. “No, probably not.”

“How did you learn?”

“Oh, you know us creative types,” Jaskier says, “Always looking at the stars and dreaming. Thought I’d actually learn something while I was dreaming, for once.” He stops. The conversation is quickly heading somewhere sombre - a path he doesn’t want to retread. “Where’s Orion?” He says, redirecting the conversation with awkward abandon.

If Geralt notices what he’s done, he certainly doesn’t say - merely points, leaning across Jaskier as he does. “There,” he says, “Over those trees.”

Jaskier follows the line of his arm to where he’s pointing, peering towards the cluster of stars. He’s right - of course - there’s Orion and his famous belt, hung in the sky like someone pinned him there. The majesty of it is lost on him, a little, suddenly aware that Geralt is so close, that their arms are pressed together. Geralt is leaning across him. If he put his arm down, they’d be practically _cuddling_.

He’s grateful for the darkness hiding his blushing cheeks.

“Right,” he says, stiffly. “There he is.” He laughs, nervously. “Hah.”

Geralt moves away, and he can breathe once more. They lapse into silence, staring upwards. Jaskier isn’t sure how long they’ll need to wait - these things have always been hit-or-miss, in his experience. It could be hours before they even-

“There!”

His head snaps around. Geralt is pointing, but Jaskier’s too late - all he catches is a little residual sparkle.

“Crap,” he huffs.

“There’ll be more.”

“There better be.”

He settles back, drawing the blanket tighter around him. It’s a further ten minutes before they see another - faint, but there - zipping across the sky to their left. Then another - and then Jaskier spots one that Geralt misses, and Geralt points out two more that Jaskier is too slow to see.

There’s a sudden lull - nearly twenty minutes pass with an infuriatingly empty sky - and then, suddenly, one darts across right above them.

Jaskier can’t hold back the gasp that escapes him. It’s _huge_ \- the brightest he’s ever seen. The meteor itself is a dazzling spot in the sky and the tail a wake of sparks, like a firework. It burns itself out in a second or so, but it feels like an age.

_“Holy shit_ ,” Jaskier breathes. He feels star-struck - quite literally. “Geralt, that was-”

Geralt sniffs. 

Jaskier freezes. Something’s wrong. “Geralt?” 

“Ciri would have-” and then Geralt’s voice catches, his breath hitching. He falls silent, and swallows heavily. 

Jaskier peers at him, his face pointing steadfastly upwards. Even in the dark, his expression is carefully stoic, unreadable. Jaskier wiggles closer, scooting himself across the cool plastic of the table till their shoulders are touching. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, quietly, “Ciri would love this. Watching for shooting stars.”

He slowly reaches towards him, sliding his hand out from beneath the blanket. It’s only a few inches between their hands, but it feels expansive. He reaches out till his fingers are brushing against the back of Geralt’s. Steeling himself, and trying to ignore the thundering sound of his blood in his ears, he reaches around, slotting his slender fingers between Geralt’s. His hand is soft - softer than Jaskier had assumed it would be. He gives it a quick, comforting squeeze. Geralt doesn’t say anything - just sniffs again.

But he doesn’t let go.

Jaskier takes that as a good sign. He’s not sure how much time passes - whether it's minutes or hours - before another meteor spins through the sky above them, and Geralt finally unhooks their hands to point it out.

When he places his arm back down at his side, he doesn’t twine their fingers back together. He does, however, press a little closer - the backs of their hands gently touching. Jaskier smiles. It’s good enough for him.

He stares up at the sky and wonders if he should make a wish.

\---

Geralt can feel his back beginning to stiffen as he shuffles his shoulders against the cold plastic of the garden table. He knows that soon they’ll have to call it a night and head back inside - although he’s no real desire to go.

Another star shoots across the sky, fainter than the last few, the sparkling tail no brighter than the trail behind an airplane. The August night is still mild, and while there’s a chill in the air it isn’t unpleasant. Geralt is aware he always runs slightly warmer than other people - he supposes that’s the reason why Jaskier had dragged a blanket with him.

Beside him, Jaskier is still facing the sky, breathing slowly. He had been right - of course. Geralt would have regretted staying inside and deliberately avoiding the light show, fuelled only by his own bitterness - his stubbornness.

He wonders, sometimes, what keeps Jaskier by his side so steadfastly. He’s been assuming for the past year that Jaskier has chosen not to move out because he’d be foolish to go anywhere else: nowhere else would he find cheaper rent, especially not for a house this size. But it’s clearly more than that, more than just the shared space. 

Jaskier has been around him for, well, he isn’t sure how many years now. He’d assumed - uncharitably, he knows now - that when Jaskier found himself living with him he’d realise just how much of an arse he is and turn away from him. He knew that relationships could be shattered when _friends_ became _roommates_ , and had expected it here, too. He’d dreaded it, in fact, although he would have denied it had you asked him all those months ago.

But it hadn’t happened. Jaskier had stuck, despite everything.

A breeze drifts across the garden, across the table, ruffling his hair. Somewhere far away, a siren wails. He’s gripped by a sudden urge - a hot ache in his chest, needing release.

“Jaskier. I-” he takes a breath, the cool air tickling his nose. “You were right, Jaskier. Don’t laugh; you were. This was… a good idea. Thank you for convincing me.” Jaskier doesn’t respond. Geralt supposes he’s waiting for him to continue - it’s not often that Geralt willingly talks about his feelings, after all. He swallows heavily. “But… not just that. Thank you for putting up with me. And… staying. Staying here. With me.” He feels stupid, now, talking up into the night sky, but carries on - distinctly aware that he’s kept in these thoughts for too long. 

“You...help,” he says, finally. “You make me better. Less of an arsehole. And, gods, I was a _massive_ arsehole. I…” he pauses. He’s glad for the cool breeze, calming his flushing cheeks, “I like having you around.”

It feels like an admission, but it doesn’t really _mean_ anything, not truly. 

He tries again. “I… I _really_ like having you around.”

He sighs. Jaskier is still silent - unusually silent. _Shit_. Was even his hesitant, fumbling confession too much?

He pushes himself up by his elbows, the plastic of the table creaking beneath him. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier, sprawled next to him, is fast asleep. His eyes are shut, and Geralt can see his eyes twitching behind his lids. He must be dreaming. His mouth hangs slightly ajar.

_Ah_.

That would explain his uncharacteristic silence. As Geralt watches, he sniffs, wriggling in his sleep. Even in the dark, his face bathed in shadows, Jaskier is handsome - although Geralt would never say that out loud.

He sighs. He can’t think about this - this _thing_ that’s happening between him and Jaskier. Even that sounds grand, sounds excessive, sounds _wrong_ : there’s _nothing_ happening between him and Jaskier, after all: whatever this is, it’s only happening to _him_. 

No. He’s not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about the quiet, gentle way Jaskier has embedded himself into his life. Not thinking about the way he’s shattered the solitary silence of Geralt’s morning routines with his impromptu shower recitals or the sudden addition of sweet-smelling soaps in the bathroom. He’s not thinking about dancing in the kitchen, about pancakes and floury hand-prints. He’s not thinking about long evenings spent watching movies and the way the space carefully left between them on the sofa has shrunk away to nothing.

He’s been trying all night - with little success - not to think about the fact that Jaskier knows him so well that he remembered that he watches the meteor shower every year. The fact that he knew this year he’d refuse because it had suddenly become _painful_ rather than _nostalgic_ , but had gotten him out with him anyway.

He shuffles towards the edge of the table, which wobbles beneath him, and carefully slides off. Jaskier doesn’t register the way the solid surface beneath him is shaking, and Geralt smiles to himself - he’s always been a deep sleeper. The wind, picking up now and growing ever-colder, buffets at him once more. He can’t leave Jaskier out here, of course, but waking him up feels wrong. He looks so peaceful.

There’s nothing for it. Geralt moves around to the side of the table, bends down, then slides his arms gently beneath his sleeping friend - one beneath his torso and the other hooking into the bends of his knees. He lifts him easily from the table in one quick movement, blanket and all. Jaskier isn’t that much smaller than him, really - perhaps just an inch or two shorter - but Geralt still doesn’t struggle to pick him up. He steadies himself for a second and then turns to head inside.

Carrying Jaskier bridal-style and trying not to think too much about _that_ , he edges through the patio doors, through the dining room and towards the living room. He could probably manage to carry him up the stairs, too, but he doesn’t want to risk Jaskier suddenly waking up and panicking, sending them both flying. 

Slowly, so as not to wake him, he lowers Jaskier onto the sofa. He awkwardly slides his arms out from under him, and Jaskier frowns in his sleep for a moment before wriggling into a more comfortable position. His eyes remain shut. The blanket has fallen onto the floor, so Geralt grabs it and gently places it over him. It’s not really long enough to cover him - his feet stick out of the end, showing off his mismatched, holey socks - but it’ll do. 

Jaskier’s dark, messy hair has fallen across his eyes in haphazard strands. He frowns again, his nose wrinkling and his lips twitching as the hair tickles at his face. Barely even thinking, Geralt reaches out, slowly, and brushes it aside. Jaskier doesn’t register the touch - just continues to sleep, and Geralt lets his fingers linger on the side of his face for a few seconds. The twitching stops, and Jaskier’s face falls into a mask of content sleep once more, his lips slightly parted.

Geralt can’t help but stare. On the road outside, cars zoom past, sending beams of light rushing across the room, dancing across the sofa and the ceiling. Jaskier’s face lights up in strobes. Geralt’s leaning in before he’s even aware what he’s doing, before he can stop himself. Jaskier is like a magnet - like the moon: a _tide_ , pulling him closer. He can feel Jaskier’s deep, sleepy breaths on his lips. 

Something catches in his throat. He blinks. _No_.

“Fuck.”

He pulls away. His heart is thundering in his chest. His hands shake. He jumps up and steps backwards so quickly he nearly falls over.

Jaskier sleeps on.

_Fuck_. Geralt backs out of the room, his heart in his mouth. He heads back into the dining room to lock the patio doors, desperate for something to do. He stands between the open doors for a moment, enjoying the cold breeze. He takes a deep, calming breath, clinging to the door, staring out into the blackness of the garden.

In the sky above, the stars twinkle. He spots Orion again, unmissable in the sky. As he watches, a dazzling meteor shoots across the constellation, dressing him - just for a moment - in sparkles.

Geralt shuts his eyes, then pulls the door closed, twists the key, and heads upstairs.

\---

Jaskier waits until he hears Geralt’s bedroom door shut before he opens his eyes. His skin is tingling, his heart valiantly attempting to beat out of his chest and throw itself across the room. He sits up, slowly, and licks his lips.

He can still feel it on them - Geralt’s breath, the shadow of a kiss, like an unfulfilled promise.

The blanket slides onto the floor, and he makes no attempt to stop it. His fingers twitch nervously against each other.

He stands, creeps into the hallway and carefully peers up the stairs. It's dark, up there: the tell-tale sliver of light that usually spills from beneath Geralt’s door has gone dark. He’s asleep - or is pretending to be. 

Jaskier takes a breath, and heads up the stairs.

They creak beneath his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> For more of my nonsense in real-time, come and say hi to me on my Tumblr: [A-Kind-Of-Merry-War](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) 💖


End file.
